Tuesday, May 22, 2012

O memory of the heart! You are stronger
than the sad memories of reason.
And often from a far-off country,
you bewitch me with your sweetness.
I remember the loved voice sounding.
I remember the eyes of azure.
I remember the careless
curling strands of golden hair.
My shepherdess, without a rival,
I remember her simplicity of dress,
the unforgotten, the dear image
that stays beside me everywhere.
My guardian spirit – granted me by love
to bring me solace in separation:
do I sleep? Bending over my pillow,
it will ease my saddened rest.

Composed by: Konstantin Batyushkov
Copied, pasted and loved by: Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

As I exited a local mall, where I had been shopping for widgets, i.e., nothing of significance, I noticed a man standing on the corner. He was looking at the sky, but I didn’t look.

Rather, what captivated my attention was his lack of hair: he was bald. Big deal you say. I would have thought the same except that he had a few strands of long hair carefully plastered in a forward direction; towards his forehead. Was he a bald guy? A guy going bald? Or a bald guy with some hairs plastered on his head?

It seemed that because he once had blond hair, he was likely considered bald. If his hair had been dark brown for example, he might not have been considered bald but rather going bald or perhaps having a bouffant hairdo—a crucial distinction.

On the other hand, it’s clear that from his point of view that he wasn’t. If he was, he wouldn’t have carefully plastered the few strands of hair on his head and combed them forward.

I walked up to him and said really loud, “Excuse me, but how few hairs must a man have to be bald?” He looked at me with surprise then anger. The other people walking frowned at me, except for two young black kids who were laughing.

As I combed my deep brown hair on the store window, I reflected, “Which grain makes the noise when corn is tipped from a container?”

Saturday, May 5, 2012

I guess you are kind of curious as to who I am, but I am one of those who do not have a regular name. My name depends on you. Just call me whatever is in your mind.

If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you a question and you did not know the answer.
That is my name.

Perhaps it was raining very hard.
That is my name.

Or somebody wanted you to do something. You did it. Then they told you what you did was wrong—“Sorry for the mistake,”—and you had to do something else.
That is my name.

Perhaps it was a game that you played when you were a child or something that came idly into your mind when you were old and sitting in a chair near the window.
That is my name.

Or you walked someplace. There were flowers all around.
That is my name.

Perhaps you stared into a river. There was somebody near you who loved you. They were about to touch you. You could feel this before it happened. Then it happened.
That is my name.

Or you heard someone calling from a great distance. Their voice was almost an echo.
That is my name.

Perhaps you were lying in bed, almost ready to go to sleep and you laughed at something, a joke unto yourself, a good way to end the day.
That is my name.

Or you were eating something good and for a second forgot what you were eating, but still went on, knowing it was good.
That is my name.

Perhaps it was around midnight and the fire tolled like a bell inside the stove
That is my name.

Or you felt bad when she said that thing to you. She could have told it to someone else: Somebody who was more familiar with her problems.
That is my name.

Perhaps the trout swam in the pool but the river was only eight inches wide and the moon shone on IDEATH and the watermelon fields glowed out of proportion, dark and the moon seemed to rise from every plant.
That is my name.

And I wish Margaret would leave me alone.

Composed by: Richard Brautigan
Copied and pasted by: Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

Thursday, May 3, 2012

It was the best of times,it was the worst of times,it was the age of wisdom,it was the age of foolishness,it was the epoch of belief,it was the epoch of incredulity,
it was the season of Light,it was the season of Darkness,it was the spring of hope,it was the winter of despair,we had everything before us,we had nothing before us,we were all going direct to Heaven,we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some ofits noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or forevil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

From "Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens
Always remembered and loved by Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name